From henceforth I’ll begin to take my time,
to tell a tale or weave a wicked scheme;
beholding to be mindful of the rhyme,
held captive; words now martyrs to the theme.
Beware that beauty toils in cuff and chain,
for greater good it must contort for me;
my phrases cropped and beaten with a cane,
to read without a hitch; so it must be.
To be or not to be the life and soul,
away from this may be the righteous path;
where you create your art without control,
all told you shall engage the purist wrath.
Perhaps one needs the presence of this cage,
to exorcise the poet from the page.